The Flower From Arthur
by Shembre
Summary: When Ariadne comes to work with the flu, who swoops in to take her back to her Paris apartment? Arthur, of course- even if Eames has already teased him for buying their architect a small gift. Complete.


_**A/N: This story occurs snuggly in between the events in "The Physical and the Mental"**_

* * *

 **The Flower from Arthur**

 _Tea. All over my desk and the fucking papers._

Blooming across the surface of Arthur's research pages, black tea mingled with the precious bits of information penned in black ink and made it bleed purple. The point man lifted a folder set in the path of the hot herbal flood.

 _At least it's not the end of the job where I have three times the information laid out._

And at least his desk didn't look like Eames's, which was rounded in some places with papers listing people's quirks, wardrobe choices, or favorite foods. Tea had stained the sleeve of Arthur's shirt. Unbuttoning it, he went to the dimly-lit, industrial warehouse bathroom. He couldn't believe he'd been so clumsy. The last time he must have spilled something, he must have been a pre-teen. He ran the sleeve underwater, scrubbing the material against itself. He shrugged the mishap off and was just glad he'd worn an undershirt. A barebacked Arthur sitting at his desk would be too enticing a chance for ridicule for Eames to pass up. Heaving a breath, he grabbed a wad of toilet paper for his desk.

"Different look today?"

The forger was earlier to work than usual. Maybe he'd actually stayed in his hotel room for the night instead of gorging on the Parisian nightlife like a heathen.

"I'm busy, Eames." Arthur made a beeline for his desk and mopped up the tea. The worse off papers needed rewriting. He was behind on his contribution to the job that was coming up in two weeks, but the papers just looked too awful and nearly unreadable. It was going to be one of those days, when he'd woken up so optimistic and—

"This little thing's new."

Arthur tossed the sopping tea mess into his trash and watched Eames's big hands come down on the little gadget Arthur had picked up that morning. As a gift.

"Why, there's a little dancing flower on your desk, Arty? Why?"

The smiling, light-powered flower danced and bobbed its head on the Brit's palm. It's base was green and it had pink plastic petals and two green leaves branching out from a stem. The little painted grin had been meant to brighten Ariadne's day, but she'd texted Arthur on his way in with "I cant leave bed today everything hurts and I threw up all nite :(". Arthur had set it on the edge of his desk, intending to hide it, but had been distracted by the disorder of their dreamshare space.

Eames flicked at the plastic petals. The toy clacked back too fast with a plastic click. "Don't touch it like that. You're gonna break it." Arthur reached for it, but the forger held it away like a child teasing its sibling with a favorite toy.

"I want to borrow it." Eames grinned. "I'd like something a little cheerful at my workstation." Eames turned and took it to his desk. The dancing flower sat on top of a mountain of papers, slightly crooked, a little precarious. Eames had a smile in his eyes as he took it in. "Yes. Now, that's lovely. I was surprised to see it on your desk, which is usually pretty colorless."

"It's," Arthur muttered, "a present for Ariadne."

Eames perked up. "Didn't catch that."

"I got that for Ariadne. Now give it back."

"She's normally here before me." Eames looked around. "The girl looked under the weather yesterday."

"She's sick today."

"She wouldn't mind if I used it for a day, eh?

"You're going to bust a leaf. Or break the head off."

Eames jutted his lip. "I didn't realize that I'm such an oaf."

Arthur's footsteps echoed through the warehouse. Once again, Eames grabbed the flower and held it away. "Why are you being difficult?" Arthur reached for it. "What? Are you five?"

"You'd be happier if you just let me borrow it." Eames pretended to pet the flower, his eyes half-closed while a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Just let me borrow it."

"No. Give it back."

Eames shook his head. "Let me borrow it for one day."

It was just a dumb, plastic trinket from a convenience store, but it was his stupid trinket, and he'd give it to Ariadne and then she'd smile so brightly and thank him for being so thoughtful.

"That shirt makes your arms look nice. I bet those arms are great for picking up Ariadne… for hugging her… for—"

Arthur grabbed for the flower. The forger knocked his hand away and pushed back in his office chair so he rolled backwards. Arthur followed Eames as he used his feet to push the chair along. After a few feet, Eames stood up and his chair kept rolling across the floor. He stepped back when Arthur clenched his fists.

"Thought you were the calm one, Arthur!" Eames clucked his tongue. Above their heads he held the flower, which continued to smile and bob its head to a silent tune.

 _Child!_ Arthur growled and flashed his palms in exasperation. "Ridiculous. Why don't you keep your hands off my things?"

"Because _this_ is far too much fun, Arty."

How much time had Arthur spent trying to snag the flower back? He wasn't going to see his bed before three at this rate. He wasn't going to jump for the flower when Eames insisted on holding it over their heads. He glared at Eames. "Fine. Borrow it. But make sure it's on Ariadne's desk by tonight when you leave." Doing an about-face, he headed back for his desk.

"Giving up?"

Arthur sat down and picked up a pen and shuffled some papers. He thought about how he might stop by Ariadne's to check on her while he was out getting something to eat, but he wasn't sure if that was going to be possible, and he wasn't sure if that would be appropriate. Sure they were, friends, but they... they… Well, there wasn't going to be much time for anything else but work.

"C'mon now. Weren't we having fun?"

Arthur grabbed a fresh stack of paper. _Only fun for you._

"Writing with pen on paper. Now that's a bit archaic."

"You know it's safer and less volatile."

"Is that why you're recopying your work now?"

Arthur's jaw tensed. _Just ignore the jerk._ He put his nose to his work, but when someone came through the door, he looked up and raised a brow.

"Ariadne? Why aren't you resting at home?"

"Oh… ummm…" Bright pink flesh on her nose and ears contrasted with the paleness of her face. She pulled out a tissue and quickly blew her nose, but it didn't sound like she'd gotten much out. "I'm okay. It's just that I remembered something." Her voice was scratchy. "I'm okay. I remembered something. Couldn't get it out of my head, y'know?"

Eames got up from his chair. "Darling, go back home." He reached for the dancing plastic flower he'd sat back on his desk. The forger walked over and placed the trinket in her hand. "Here, take this, turn right around, and go to bed."

Eyeing the thing, Ariadne asked, "What is it?"

"Just a little something to make you feel better. From me to you." Eames winked at Ariadne.

Arthur's face and neck flushed. "I bought her that!"

Eames tsked. "Now, Arthur, we can't all be thoughtful."

Ariadne looked incoherently between the men. "Ummm…"

"You can't afford to be thoughtful. You stole it right off my desk and played 'keep away'."

"I never noticed how your voice cracks when you're flustered."

"I am not!" Arthur's cheeks burned. "Flustered!"

Eames smirked at Ariadne. "Just wishing he'd gotten that flower for you. Really, do you believe this? Doesn't he _wish_ he could have gotten a flower for someone like you. And taking credit for my gift when he's spilled coffee on his work?"

"It was tea!"

"I'm gonna work for an hour or two then head home again," Ariadne remarked in a ragged voice, looking confused. "Thanks. Whoever got the flower." She wiped her nose on her sleeve absently before pulling out another tissue.

"I got it," Arthur spoke up, but Ariadne wasn't listening.

The architect dropped her purse at her desk and sat down in her chair for a second before her face went even paler and she rushed to the bathroom.

"Ariadne?" Arthur followed her. He opened the bathroom door to find her crouched over the toilet bowl. "Ariadne, are you okay?" Careful not to startle her, he gathered her hair up and held it for her. When he felt a dampness with his fingers, he realized he was too late to save a few strands. "I'm taking you home. I'll take care of whatever it was you came down here for."

"No." She coughed and let out a gasp. "I can… oh, who am I kidding…"

"You do need rest."

"But I could work and get rest if I go under?" Ariadne moved away from the toilet but stayed kneeling on the floor. "I researched a maze the other night. I wanna see if it works."

From the doorway, Eames said, "Going under while you're sick is a bad idea."

"Exactly." Arthur placed his palm on their architect's forehead. The skin around her nostrils looked painfully irritated from repeated tissue abuse.

Her dull, half-open eyes closed. "Your hand feels nice."

"You're burning up, that's why."

"I am?"

The idea that she had traveled from her apartment in her current state made Arthur queasy.

"You guys need me…"

"Right now, we need you to rest," Arthur told her.

"Did you really get me that flower thing?"

Arthur stood at the sink and shot a look at Eames, who stepped away from the door. Arthur ran his hand under the water before he helped Ariadne sit on the lid of the toilet and wiped her face with his hand. His fingers went over the sallow skin of her forehead, the dark circles under her eyes, and the dull pink flesh of her mouth. "Yes. Eames took it from my desk and wouldn't give it back."

Ariadne's eyes squinted as her face broke out in a grin and she chuckled hoarsely.

"He was going to break it.

Ariadne laughed harder.

"I couldn't let him borrow it."

"Your voice does crack when you're upset," Ariadne giggled.

Arthur sighed. "I need to get you home."

"Can we take the PASIV?"

"No. Don't even think about dreams unless you're in a dream you created in your own head 'til you're well again."

"Who made you my boss?"

Maybe it was a good sign she was still protesting. He relaxed his shoulders and took her hand. "I don't mean to tell you what to do… but…"

Ariadne looked down and said quietly, "You wouldn't tell Eames to go back and rest."

She did have a point, but she wasn't Eames. "Wouldn't have to. Eames is a man-child when he's sick. He wouldn't hobble into work unless someone's life was on the line. Now, c'mon. Let's get you home."

When Arthur pulled his car into a spot near her apartment building, Ariadne was sleeping with her face turned away and her head back against the headrest. Moving slowly, Arthur slipped out of his belt, got out of the car, shut his door, and opened Ariadne's door. Her eyes fluttered open. Unbuckling her, he helped her out, slipping his hand behind her back and taking the hand farthest away.

On the way up to the apartment, which Ariadne had bought after her graduation, Arthur put his hand on her forehead. Again, she closed her eyes against his cool hand. Was she warmer than she'd been earlier? Arthur pursed his mouth and watched Ariadne's feet to make sure she didn't stumble.

At her door Ariadne fumbled with her keys. Arthur held his breath. He'd never been invited in. He'd always stood outside the door and listened for her to lock the deadbolt and place the chain for the evening after they'd gone out for food to pacify their empty stomachs. Instinctively, he took a step backwards before Ariadne swayed on her feet and he all but dove to steady her.

"Glad we're right outside your door." He took the keys from her and unlocked the door.

"I'm just a little unsteady."

"Right." He picked Ariadne up. For a moment she resisted, but he didn't care. He walked through the apartment and Ariadne pointed the way to her bedroom.

"Let's get you into something comfortable." Arthur set her down on the edge of her bed and went to her dresser. The second from the top drawer had her pajamas. He picked an over-sized shirt and some flannel shorts. "These look nice."

When he turned around, Ariadne had disappeared. The sound of her heaving in the connecting bathroom made his shoulders sag.

He went into the bathroom. "I put your clothes on the bed." Leaning down, he saw her pallid face and felt the skin on her shoulder. "Where's a thermometer?"

"I have one?" Ariadne reached out for some Kleenex to blow her poor, mucus-rimmed nose.

He didn't find one in the drawers or in the cabinet over her sink or in the cabinets under her sink where she kept her feminine prod—

 _Nope. Not there._

He found the junk drawer in her kitchen, but didn't find a thermometer there, either. He did see and smiled at her frou-frou bottle of ginger-scented soap and at the stained and threadbare dish rag hanging over the kitchen facet. One side of the sink had a few dirtied dishes, which looked like hand-me-downs. Her apartment didn't have a dishwasher. She'd told him once that she found washing dishes more relaxing than listening to the 'roar of a machine beating her dishes to shit.' He found the sink plug and filled the basin with soapy water to soak the dishes. Grabbing Ariadne a glass of water and some crackers, which he put on her nightstand, he asked her where her first aid kit was.

She was still in the bathroom, brushing her teeth. "My closet? I think that's where I put it when I moved in."

After a little digging and shuffling, he found the little, white, square tote with the red cross on it. Inside was a little thermometer. Ariadne was back on her bed by then and he popped it into her mouth. He watched the mercury rise in the thin tube of marked glass. She looked up at him unhappily from the edge of her bed, now changed into her pajamas. Her eyes were dull. She'd pulled her hair up into a hair tie, though she kept swatting at and brushing aside of strand that wouldn't stay put.

"That's probably long enough," Arthur muttered. He removed the thermometer.

Ariadne cleared her throat and rubbed her neck. "Well?"

Arthur squinted. "Ninety-nine point… eight." That wasn't good. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Kind of thirsty. My muscles are killing me. My head feels stuffed up. My whole body's so heavy."

"Let's get you under the sheets for one." He moved to the head of the bed and pulled down her blankets. She had red flannel sheets.

She smiled faintly, then frowned. "You really don't have to."

"What?"

"Take care of me. You're going to catch what I have, too." She climbed in under her blankets and he covered her up.

He smiled. "Don't worry about me. Do you need anything else?"

She glanced at the glass of water and packet of crackers and smiled and shook her head.

"I'm going to give Eames a call. I'll be back."

"Okay." Looking small and vulnerable, she laid back against her pillow.

Arthur went back to the kitchen. Eames picked up on the third ring. "You're on your own today." His hand rested on the edge of the sink, and after a moment he picked up the dish rag.

 _"Your pet needs sitting."_

"She almost has a hundred degree fever. Not leaving her alone."

 _"Dear Arthur, your affection is showing."_

Arthur's grip tightened around his phone. Had he expected anything less? "Later, Eames." He ended the call. Today he'd had enough from Eames. To cleanse away his anger, he cleaned Ariadne's dishes and set them aside to dry. It was the one thing he could control when little that day had turned out how he'd anticipated.

 _Not that I'm complaining about taking care of Ariadne…_

From her doorway, he could see that Ariadne had dozed off, her head lolled over her pillow and the unruly strand lying across her chin.

 _Good. She needs the rest._

In her living room, Ariadne had a small television that looked like it was at least ten years old, if not more. He turned it on. She'd been watching Canal J, which was running an episode of Pokémon. Chuckling, he turned on the news for background noise as he took in Ariadne's apartment.

Before, he'd only caught glimpses of her place through her doorway, like it was a remote land on the other side of a portal mirror. He walked past her round dining room table, which was big enough for no more than four people. Only two chairs were sitting out, and the table looked like a resting station for her mail.

There were a few photo frames perched around the apartment, but nothing was nailed to the wall. She had stuck up a ragged-edged poster of a band he'd never heard of. The sun had bleached out the colors, giving the dulled paper a blue tinge. Arthur wondered how many walls it had clung to… Maybe it had been tacked up in her dorm room, or in her bedroom at her parents' house.

Passing by the bedroom, Arthur glanced in at Ariadne before he saw her small collection of movies lined up on the shelves under her television. He grinned. Wedged beneath a shiny, thin DVD player was a VCR. It even showed the correct time.

He was used to investigating the finer details. It felt good, but now this felt odd. Looking through Ariadne's apartment, especially while she slept? He couldn't help it. Who wouldn't smile at the mismatched pillows on her couch, or the little row of cacti lined up on the window sill, or the picture of her as a little girl hugged in the arms of what might have been her great-grandma? Still, he would have felt less slimy if she had been giving him the tour herself. He stopped looking around and glanced at his watch.

Barely afternoon.

He sat down on the couch, intending to sit on the edge for a minute, before reclining back. The couch was incredibly comfortable. It looked old. Now he knew why she hadn't bought any new furniture; the young woman couldn't have been any more sentimental, and why replace what wasn't broken?

He didn't want to leave Ariadne alone, with her fever and how light-headed she seemed. Reflexively, he glanced at his watch, not really expecting the hands to have moved much, but at the same time hoping time had flashed ahead. But he'd had a lot to do…

Rubbing his neck and face, he turned his eyes to the TV.

 _When was the last time I sat down and watched TV without doing anything else or expecting to go somewhere?_

The news channel quickly started to irritate him. He clicked through the channels until he found a cooking show. Sleep hadn't come easy over the last week. The chef on the show he was watching demonstrated how to butcher a chicken, and Arthur rested his head against the back of the couch.

The last thing he remembered was watching the chef place the splayed chicken out on a tray when, around seven that evening, he heard Ariadne in the bathroom again. He followed the light escaping the bathroom.

She was crouched with her forehead resting on her raised knee and her hands resting on her ankle. Her oversized shirt hung off one shoulder as she shivered.

He flushed the toilet, picked her up, and got her back into bed. Her skin was clammy to the touch.

She closed her eyes and rubbed her face with her hand. "Why are you being so great?"

"I'm always nothing less than great in all things," Arthur replied matter-of-factly, though he felt stupid for it. He looked away, searching for something less asinine to say. He sat down on the edge of the bed and clasped his hands in his lap.

"And you bought me a flower today, Arthur. Right? Didn't you?" She opened her eyes halfway.

"Yes, I did."

"Some days you act like you shouldn't have me… other days you're almost like a… boyfriend—if someone put a label on it."

Arthur stiffened. Ariadne had never been so direct with him.

The feeling that he should let Ariadne be nagged at Arthur… but they'd grown so much closer since she'd graduated. He'd seen that plastic flower, sitting among all the other cheap store crap, and had instantly thought of Ariadne. He'd needed to buy that stupid, mechanical, dancing flower for her. Drawing in one long breath and letting it go, he murmured, "How could I _not_ want to be great to you?" He shrugged and his face burned. He turned away and looked at his socks. "You should try to eat those crackers."

"Arthur?"

His back went rigid.

"I think I really like you."

Arthur's stomach fluttered, but at the same time he was ashamed that her words made him feel terrified. Though, maybe _terrified_ wasn't the right word. It implied that the worst thing that she could tell him was that she liked him. It implied that her feelings were dangerous. That there was _no way_ he could have her feeling anything for him. He wanted her to like him. He liked her, too. _A lot._

"I realize you don't want me to be so distant," he whispered, "but I don't want to disappoint or endanger you or—"

"You wouldn't. And I'm already an architect."

She'd been sucked in after the Fischer job, but he'd hoped she'd wise up. Leave. Even if that meant losing a fine mind and work partner…

There are moments that feel heavier than others. Moments with more meaning to them than just the fleeting passage of seconds or minutes. Arthur watched Ariadne's eyes. She felt the significance and heft, too. Damn, why had he bought that flower? Why had he fallen asleep on her couch instead of leaving for _work?_ Why had he touched her warm skin and smiled as she drank in the cool relief of his unfevered flesh?

"I know our job is dangerous. I know you're human. You could never disappoint me," she said, reaching out to touch his arm. "Thank you for looking after me, Arthur."

Arthur pursed his lips before he rubbed his mouth. It was his move. But she was sick with a fever. Was she even in her right mind?

 _Don't kid yourself. She is in her right mind and she wants you as much as you want her._

"You… you should get some more rest…" He hated the words that came out of his mouth so much that they hurt his teeth. He shifted his weight to stand up, but he couldn't stand.

"The couch isn't very comfortable."

He stared straight ahead.

"Stay."

He started to pull away, but Ariadne held on to his shirt with a fierce grip.

"Hold me in your arms. Please? Please?"

He sighed. He was caught; he could say that her flu was contagious and that he couldn't afford to get sick. He could say he would never have an intimate relationship with a coworker. He could lie and tell her that she was alone in her feelings… but how good would she feel in his arms? He'd held her briefly a couple times, but never for very long. Mostly to help her climb down off of something. There were times when his arms had ached to hold her.

He knew this was his chance to stop himself, but he gave in with a nod.

She made room for him and he sat next to her with his back against the wooden headboard. He pulled a blanket over his legs. Then, he carefully raised his arm and put it behind her neck. Ariadne skooched down and rested her head and hand on his chest.

"Comfortable?"

"I already feel better." Ariadne took a deep, sighing breath before she closed her eyes. After a minute, her breathing steadied and her whole body relaxed. Her breath rasped softly.

 _You feel perfect in my arms…_

He couldn't back down now, drawn in and hooked on Ariadne just like he'd been pulled into the dreamshare as a younger man and hadn't yet found his way out. Nor did he want to. He wasn't going to change direction.

* * *

"How's Ariadne?"

"Her temperature lowered quite a bit overnight. I thought she'd be fine for several hours while I finished some work today." At eight the next morning, Arthur sat down at his desk, which was still messy after the trouble with his tea. He shuffled papers and grabbed a fresh notepad. His hand went to the slight kink in his neck when, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the plastic, dancing flower had been returned to his desk. It sat atop a PASIV case. Inwardly, he smiled, but then…

Something seemed off. Arthur looked again at the flower, then up at Eames. "The petals are orange."

"Are they?"

"I bought Ariadne a pink flower." Arthur stared at Eames.

Slowly, a creep of blush pinked up the forger's neck. He shifted in his chair.

"Eames?" Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"All right, all right. I bumped it and the poor thing didn't stand a chance against the floor. Smashed into a pitiful heap of sad little bits."

"I knew—"

" _Knowing you'd be absolutely irate_ , Arthur, I went to the little convenience store down the street I know you like."

 _Of course Eames knows that…_

"They were sold out up front. So I ask the cashier, 'got any dancing flowers in the back with the pink petals?' Cashier looks at me odd and leaves for a bit, comes back with 'Sorry, Joe, but we got the colors we got.' 'Okay,' I say. Kinda start to sweat when he tells me he has orange and he has red and he has purple. I try to estimate how colorblind you might be and whether or not Ariadne paid much attention to the color of the damn thing."

"I'm not colorblind at all."

"I know. In the moment, that's what you think of."

"I might not have noticed a red one. It would've made more sense. Ariadne wears red." Arthur tapped his foot.

"Yes." Eames rubbed his neck. He mumbled, "Yes. Now, this is where you tell me that you were right and I was wrong. C'mon, let me have it."

Arthur opened his mouth, but paused and smirked at the forger. He'd been over the trouble with the flower the moment Ariadne had opened her eyes that morning with color in her cheeks. He'd woken up next to girls before, and he'd certainly woken up with Ariadne next to him before, but that morning… there was nothing like it. She'd eaten a handful of crackers and had taken down a couple glasses of water. He was going to bring some of her work to her later and maybe stay to cook something for her.

Arthur turned back to his papers. "Eames, don't touch my things."


End file.
